Puerto Rico with Carli & Tom

The idea of a trip to Puerto Rico blossomed a few years ago when CGM, The French Line, moved their regional office there. I told cousin Hank de Geus, whom I last saw when we both visited his daughter, Katy, in Colorado a few years back, that I was planning a business trip there in early 1996 and suggested that he meet me for a week of sightseeing. He promised to consider the idea. When I mentioned the possibility to Carli some time in 1995, she instantly asked if she and Tom could join me. They had been in a Spanish conversational group for a couple of years and were eager to visit a Spanish-speaking country. I was delighted. Carli took over planning for the trip, with help from their office manager, Mirla Reyes, a Puerto Rican. To our disappointment, Hank decided later he could not make the trip.

Sunday, 10 March

I had a pleasant, uneventful trip, leaving Belize early in the morning and reaching San Juan at 6:30 pm.

The airport gleamed with newness. However, there were no luggage carts. Fortunately, I had packed so conservatively that when I closed and lifted my garment bag before departure, I was tempted to open it and add a few of the clothes I so carefully had excluded. I had no problem carrying my garment bag through the airport and pulling my wheeled suitcase by its strap.

At the curbside, the taxi dispatcher asked where I was going, extracted two overlarge suitcases from the open trunk of the taxi in front of him to the dismay of their owners, and tossed my luggage in upside down.

I was lucky in getting a bright, voluble young taxi driver who was interested in talking about his country. The drive into the city, with its myriad lights from highrise buildings, was daunting. Bridges ablaze with lights spanned the contrasting black of rivers and bays. It was a relief to reach Old San Juan’s simpler, more sedate dim streets. We passed what seemed in the dark to be stately homes, then walls of buildings reminiscent of many I saw in Spain.

It was amazing to me that my driver even could find The Galería Inn. It is on an unmarked driveway that angles off the main street along the Atlantic coast between the massive forts of San Cristóbal and El Morro. He pulled up the steep, short drive and halted in front of an iron grill. There was no sign, nothing to indicate that it was not the discreet entrance to a private home.

I reluctantly accepted his word that I was in the right place.

A grill blocked entrance to a short old brick walkway. As I approached, an elegantly dressed woman in spike heels tripped on the uneven steps inside and fell in a heap. My taxi-man was barred by the grill from rescue. A charming young woman appeared from the patio behind, helped the Fallen Angel to her feet, and opened the grill to let me in. I spoke solicitously to the woman who was ruefully inspecting herself after her fall. Damage was limited to her sheer black stockings and her dignity.

The Galería hostess greeted me by name—Katharine—to my amusement, introduced herself as Chista, and said she would show me to my room. When I suggested that she might want me to register, she waved a cheerful hand and said I could do that later. Chista led me through what, at the time, seemed a brief maze of small ancient rooms lush with greenery and glowing with paintings and bas reliefs. She threw open a tall, narrow wooden-grilled door and led me up a steep flight of stairs of checkerboard tiles. The great slab door of ancient wood at the top of the stairs opened onto a short downward flight of stairs into my bedroom, “Secret B.”

Dark-painted lattice screened the steps. The room was higher than it was wide. A dark-beamed ceiling looked down on roughly plastered walls. A large arched window opened onto two patios on the floor below. Later I realized that the nearest one was the quaint cistern patio while the larger, far one, was the open-air studio of the Galería’s artist-owner, Jan d’Esopo. The walls surrounding the great window were painted in trompe l’oeil as if old bricks showed through a broken wall. A profusion of paintings and bas reliefs decorated the walls.

A huge, high four-poster double bed took up half the room. Pillows were heaped invitingly. The dark, swirly print of the coverlet was duplicated in the curtains outlining the arched opening into the tiny bathroom. Privacy was minimally assured by a sheer old-gold net curtain.

I asked Chista for my room key.

“Oh, none of our rooms has a key,” she replied brightly. “In twenty-some years we never have had a problem. There is a good bolt on the inside, though, that you should use when you are in the room.” Chista did not realize that she was speaking to the world’s Number One Paranoiac when it comes to assuming hordes are lurking outside her room at all times, intending to invade as soon as she leaves.

My consternation was compounded when I discovered that the lock on my suitcase was dangling uselessly from one zipper tab, the other tab broken in transit. I was in a strange country in strange surroundings with no security whatever. I had two options: collapse in hysterics or shrug. I took the easier one.

As long as I was “In Residence” in Secret B, both security and privacy were assured by the heavy, bolted door at the top of my private stairs and by barred shutters at the great window. So was claustrophobia. The only air was supplied by machine. Three lamps gave total illumination better suited to a tryst than to the business of unpacking and settling, let alone reading. Nevertheless, it was a charming room.

 

The Galería is literally that: an art studio and gallery for the owner, with a few suites and rooms for guests. The three buildings that now comprise the Galería date back to the mid-Fifteen Hundred’s. Some twenty years ago—neglected, derelict, inhabited by squatters—they were bought, joined, and restored by a noted artist and her husband. It is a wonderful warren of old brick, lush patios, unexpected stairs, with charming and oddly-shaped rooms.

The Galería was hosting a large dinner party the night I arrived. The Damsel of the Torn Stockings obviously was one of the guests. Happy voices wafted up through my barred shutters from the patio below as I unpacked slowly in the dimness of my room and the dark of my walk-in closet.

When I had undressed and was ready to wash my stockings, I found a gaping drain in the basin. Smugly I went to my suitcase and reached into the far corner of a pocket where I carry three sizes of basin plugs for such emergencies. They were not there. I decided I must have removed them for my December trip to California.

My best alternative was the plastic wastebasket in the bathroom. It leaked. Still, I was able to do a relatively satisfactory washing. When I finished, I retrieved my package of clothesline and pins from my suitcase. Inside it were the missing basin stoppers. They were the new ones purchased to replace the three from the corner of the suitcase stolen in France two years earlier.

Monday, 11 March

I walked down the hill that was to become something of a trial during my days in San Juan and did a few errands.

Old San Juan is hilly. Streets are paved with small, iridescent blue bricks. Tom later explained they were made from the tailings of iron factories especially for use as ballast in sailing ships. The Galería sits at the top of a fairly steep hill; restaurants and shops are strung out some five blocks below. It was a pleasant walk down to them. It was daily drudgery to return to our lodgings. What with our endless perambulations, we did the climb several times a day.

Near noon, Sylvia Álvarez, along with the delightful young CGM SUD finance manager, Jean-Yves, picked me up. We went to an elegant restaurant, where we were joined by Jean-Paul Gustin, regional manager. Soon after we were seated, all exclaimed in hushed voices that a new group nearby included San Juan’s mayor.

The conversation was both delightful and, in business regards, useful. The food was superb. Jean-Paul insisted I share his appetizer and challenged me to say what it was. To his surprise, I was able to identify sweetbreads grilled in butter with slices of garlic. I ordered a lovely salmon in rosemary sauce. Sylvia and I had a dessert tart of blackberries in white chocolate.

Jean-Paul drove me back to the CGM SUD office, with a side trip to the docks when I admitted I would like to see them. After our meeting, Jean-Paul drove me back to The Galería. I had told him how utterly charming I found it, but the expression on his face when he saw the grilled doorway with its ancient brick walls and pathway behind it indicated that he was appalled.

 

It was about 4:00 pm; I did not expect Carli and Tom for another five hours. I killed the time writing, reading, napping, and fretting. By about 8:45, I settled myself with my book at a table in the patio nearest to the entrance. At 9:00, I overheard someone at the desk in the adjacent room apparently giving instructions for finding the Galería. I went in to ask if by any chance it had been Carli on the phone. I did not realize I was talking to Jan d’Esopo, the owner.

When Carli and Tom had not arrived thirty minutes later, I walked outside hoping they would see me. I was sure they were driving back and forth, unable to identify the small driveway that led to the Galería. Jan and her nondescript dog, Copa, joined me. She said she had told Carli to look for the gargoyles. I had not noticed them from the back seat of the taxi the night before. On the roof’s edge, brightly spotlighted, were two delightfully grotesque figures, examples of the artist’s humorous skill.

About 9:45, a red Ford Taurus slowly turned into the drive and my beloved Carli and Tom appeared smiling happily. Jan insisted on giving us all an immediate tour of the Galería. She made it plain that she considered it a home, not an hotel.

Upstairs, a beautifully decorated music room held an enormous grand piano. Jan explained that a music student used it regularly to practice and that guests were allowed to listen unobtrusively. Jan said that she sometimes took groups of guests in for informal concerts, saying it was good practice for the student. Jan led us through patios and passageways, up stairways, through one of her own rooms, onto her own, statuary-crowded balcony, and up to a large rooftop overlooking the city, the forts, the ocean.

Carli and Tom’s suite was off the same stairway as mine, about three-quarters of the way up to my entrance. Their large entry and comfortable living room opened onto a long balcony overlooking one the entrance patio. Huge trees shaded it, allowing glimpses through the shiny leaves of the Atlantic beyond. With our private stairway and close proximity, we felt a million miles from the world.

 

If anyone was in charge of running the Galería, it didn’t show. Jan made it clear that it was not her job. The several young ladies we saw at the computers were invariably friendly and delightful. None of them appeared to manage.

The Galería was the most lackadaisical place I ever have been. We both were taken directly to rooms and returned to the desk at our convenience, that day or the next, to register.

Rooms were immaculate. Sheets appear to be changed every other day. Bathroom supplies were haphazard. I had no soap when I arrived but, fortunately, carry a special bath soap. Next day I went out (down the hill, that is, which I then had to climb back up) and bought hand soap for Carli and Tom and myself. When they arrived, their bathroom had four bars; mine still had none. Next day, the maid left three for me. The towel situation was equally strange: some days no wash cloth, one day, three; some days no hand towel but three bath towels; some days one of each. When I called about shortages, a smiling maid appeared instantly with supplies. Most of the time I was too amused at the variation to bother.

Tuesday, 12 March

I rose and dressed early. I pulled my comfortable upholstered chair from its place in front of the mirror at the foot of my stairs and established myself in front of my huge open window to read until Carli and Tom were ready for breakfast.

We went down for a simple Continental breakfast set out on a small bar. One went into the cupboards for coffee cups, if necessary. Slices of homemade bread were ready to go into the toaster oven. One raided the refrigerator for more juice or milk. Later in the day, one helped oneself to the soft drinks, wine, or beer in the refrigerator and kept a list of what was taken so it could be paid for on departure.

Carli, Tom, and I found an unoccupied little area up a couple of steps from the breakfast-bar level, nestled under a set of stairs leading to an even higher level. We settled around the large, low coffee table for our breakfasts. To our delight, it was available for us every day of our stay. Most people preferred the tables and chairs in the patio where I had waited for Carli and Tom the night of their arrival. From our semi-private dais, we looked onto a long open patio with old brick walls, planters along one side, and doors on the other. Busts emerged improbably from among the giant plants. A full-size statue graced the raised area at the far end.

 

Tom looked at his watch, which reported a decent mid-morning hour, and said worriedly that it was only such-and-such time in Palo Alto. I reminded him that he was in Puerto Rico and that he had enjoyed a full nights’ sleep by current time. For days, Tom kept referring to California time and I continued to tease him about it.

We set out on our walking tour of Old San Juan. We enjoyed the restored rooms and small museum of the Casa Blanca, home of the Ponce de León family. The explorer himself never lived there. The exhibit was charming and the gardens outside, even more so.

We proceeded through gracious streets to the bottom of the hill that is Old San Juan. We stopped at a sidewalk café for delicious fruit frappés. They were cool and filling. We skipped lunch, as we did most days of the trip. It made us feel righteous about enjoying dessert every night.

After further exploration of the shopping area, we climbed back up the several blocks of steep hill to The Galería. Tom had been given a key to the back door. The door, with plants on each side, had only a number to identify it. We entered through a long hall hung with paintings, climbed a wide, tiled staircase, and walked through Jan’s studio, where she was at work on one of the three busts that were her current project. A narrow passageway took us past the private kitchen and past a display of bas reliefs to the main room. It was more lounge than lobby, despite the small desk and three busy computers in the far corner. From there, we went out into another patio and through our private door with its wooden-spool grill at the foot of our tiled stairway.

We adjourned to Carli and Tom’s veranda for refreshments before separating for a rest before dinner.

 

We walked back down the hill and, after a bit of wandering, located the restaurant where we had made unnecessary reservations. It reminded us of an old New Orleans restaurant with tiled floors, enormous mirrors framed in dark wood, and the most extraordinary ornate ceramic columnar pieces in corners, exquisite samples of the worst of Victoriana.

We had typical Puerto Rican food and were disappointed. It was interesting but relatively tasteless. We agreed later that the well-recommended restaurant was one of the worst choices of our trip. Carli remarked hopefully that the food might be better once we got “out on the island” (the phrase indicating anywhere away from San Juan). She was right, wonderfully right.

We trudged back up the hill to The Galería. Jan was in the kitchen as we passed, so we stopped to visit with her. She suggested enthusiastically that we go back out to the bar across the street because it was a Tuesday, its traditional Opera night. The music, she said, was lovely and guests sang when they felt like joining. We went back, but the bar looked very quiet and was far too smoky to attract us. We returned to Carli and Tom’s balcony and sat in the darkness where the treetops half-hid the Atlantic, not far away.

Wednesday, 13 March

After breakfast, we settled ourselves in the bright red Taurus parked half on/half off the sidewalk per instructions to Tom when they arrived. Almost immediately after departing, Tom ran into a no-entry street, turned and proceeded down a no-exit street. Shades of Spain. He reversed back the long, narrow street, manipulated a turn, and we were on our way to see the national rain forest reserve of El Yunque.

The city of San Juan was less overwhelming to me by day. However, as I learned my first day with Jean-Paul and reconfirmed almost immediately, driving could be hazardous to one’s health. Each San Juan driver appeared to believe that he had constant and immediate access to all available traffic lanes. Twice I saw drivers happily turn left across two lanes of cars properly paused at red lights. Tom stopped at a signal and a car sped past him on the right through the red light. After many blocks of defensive driving, Tom commented, “These people pull all sorts of stunts to gain one little car length.” There was an incredible dichotomy about San Juan drivers. They were unfailing polite to pedestrians, unbelievably rude in traffic.

Tom drove and Carli navigated, despite her wretched sense of direction. I asked whether she attributed it to her long-ago concussion.

Carli: I have been Directionally Challenged since I was a child.

Kate (to Tom): It’s all right to let Carli read directions from a book, but don’t let her point.

In practice, Carli gives directions as “turn your way” or “turn my way” rather than risk confusion between left and right.

We drove eastward along the azure Atlantic with its long crested rollers. The highway was lined with low, sprawling resorts and tiny refreshment shacks. The road was excellent with regular parking areas and rest stops. Finally we turned south, twisting through mountainous high bush to the rain forest.

Kate: This looks like home.

Carli: Except for the road.

Tom: This is what happens when you have a Corps of Engineers with nothing to do.

We stopped at an observation tower. It was a design to end all designs. Steps were comfortable and wide. A pipe rail down the center separated up-going and down-going traffic. Each short flight ended with a large landing for catching one’s breath and an observation window for enjoying the view over the forest while doing it. The open viewing area at the top came almost as an anti-climax.

We drove a bit farther into El Yunque but realized that, for all of us, there was no need to fly thousands of miles to see a rain forest. We continued driving northeast. The botanical gardens were closed so we continued on out to the tip of the island. Signs were an interesting mix of English and Spanish, such as “La Casa de Mattress & Dry Cleaning.” We passed questionable-looking open-air restaurants. Finally we found a neat building across from the shore that we thought might be cleaner and safer. We took a table by large windows overlooking the little harbor. It was one of our inspired choices. We had delicious seafood lunches, nicely prepared and attractively served.

Carli excused herself after we finished. She returned to reassure me about the facilities. “They are clean, roomy, have paper—and a jukebox.”

 

The trip back to San Juan should have been a simple, relatively brief drive along the northeastern coastal road. Tom drove and Carli continued to navigate. I did not have a map. Carli kept up a steady stream of instructions. I became uncomfortably aware that the sun was shining brightly on my right shoulder. Considering that it was mid-afternoon and that the sun would be in the western sky, it indicated to me that we were driving south. The coastal road ran east to west. I said nothing. We passed a sign.

Kate (tentatively): Do you realize that we are back in El Yunque?

Carli: Yes.

This did nothing to reassure me that Tom had a clue about where he was going.

Kate (in a determined, motherly attempt to save the party from the wilds of Puerto Rico): The sun is shining on my right shoulder. I believe that means that we are going south.

Carli: Yes.

Tom (after miles through El Yunque in what I was sure was the wrong direction): We certainly got away from the traffic.

Kate (to herself—Did we want to?)

Carli: Ignore 946, or maybe its 9946…turn your way on 953 then quickly your way onto something that I think is my way on 185…

Tom: You’d better make your mind up before we get there.

Carli: (mumbles)

Tom (glancing at Carli): How can you read the map without your reading glasses?

Carli: Well, I don’t need them now except on rare occasions.

Tom: If you can’t read three-digit road numbers, how are you going to read the four-digit ones?

Carli: I thought this morning I should put them in my pocket. (pause) I think I brought them on the trip.

Kate (to herself—This is meant to reassure me?)

We continued through forested mountains. Gradually the sun moved behind my back. We finally had curved to the east, Carli dictated turns onto one back road after another, each with its own set of hair-pin curves. Tom remarked facetiously, “We’re out of the woods,” as we emerged into open country and wound through a valley passing occasional homes or villages surrounded by undisciplined tropical growth.

Carli pointed in surprise to a pair of shoes, laces tied together, dangling over a telephone wire. We saw the same thing many times in the back country, often several pairs close together, and wondered who, under what circumstances, considered it a good joke.

One of my companions remarked that we would be following a large lake formed by a dammed-up river. I must have muttered something about someone’s apparently knowing where we were.

Tom: Oh, I thought you knew we were taking a scenic route back. No wonder you kept complaining about having the sun on your right shoulder. I thought you were uncomfortable from the heat and turned up the air conditioning.

Letting me know exact travel plans became a standing joke for the rest of the trip.

We finally reached a divided highway. Carli, with satisfaction, read a road sign: “San Juan.”

Tom (with rising, surprised, inflection): San Juan?

Carli: Don’t you want to go home?

Tom wound his way faultlessly through the unfamiliar city from extreme south to extreme north. As he pulled up in his same parking space on the sidewalk in front of the Galería, he remarked, “It’s fun driving with a blind navigator.”

We retired to Carli and Tom’s balcony to talk about our trip. The subject of Puerto Rican cuisine came up. Carli and I admitted that we knew it would be bland but were disappointed to have been proved right by the traditional “asopao” the night before.

Carli (to Tom): When we go out west, the food probably will be spicier.

Kate (interested in hearing about their next trip): When are you going where, and who’s going with you?

Carli (astonished): The west coast of Puerto Rico, and we thought you were!

Kate (giggling): You don’t say “out west” here, you say “out on the island.”

Thursday, 14 March

I had an early hair appointment. Tom and Carli insisted on walking me down the hill to it. A tall Dominican girl whose Spanish I could understand easily, did an excellent job.

Carli and Tom met me as she finished. We walked from shop to shop looking for a light nylon jacket for me to wear on the water at Phosphorescent Bay, for the noted local handmade lace, and for sun screen for Alex. We had limited success. The only jacket I could find was a rather attractive one, white with single bars of blue and red and a small crest saying Puerto Rico. Unfortunately, it was a man’s size medium, and was enormous on me. The next day, in desperation, I returned and bought it, thinking I could donate it to either María or Alex for their coming Caribbean Prince cruise. Alex never had a chance; Maria claimed it delightedly.

We walked a short distance west of the Galería to the famous fortress El Morro. It held off English and Dutch invaders through the centuries. Heavy waves broke against barriers of black rocks at the base of the fort. Tide pools behind the first line of rocks showed how closely the sea encroached on the massive walls. We climbed every stone stairway, walked up or down every ramp, explored every watch tower. El Morro is an immense, impressive fort.

We continued our explorations of Old San Juan, returning to The Casa Blanca so Tom could take pictures and ending at the foot of Cruz for a repeat of our frappés.

 

We made dinner reservations at a noted French restaurant, dressed in our finest, and set out in pouring rain. By a miracle, Tom found a nearby parking place.

La Chaumiere was small, simple, charming, with superb food. We all started with their special Portobello mushrooms sautéed with butter, garlic, and herbs. Tom’s poached salmon in a sea of green-tinted basil sauce, garnished with a small island of shredded of vegetables, was picture-book elegant. Carli succumbed to the exotic and chose ostrich steak, tender in a delicious sauce. I had a rack of lamb that arrived with such a multitude of tiny, perfectly cooked chops that I could share with Carli and Tom. Tom’s dessert was an enormous floating island with caramel sauce in a huge goblet. Carli had a lovely chocolate and almond tart that I should have ordered. I had the worst crème brûlée ever. It contained unwelcome apples and a cloying coating of sugar that was melted but not crisp.

Friday, 15 March

After breakfast, Carli left to take accumulated laundry to the nearby laundromat. When she returned, we set out for the Castillo de San Cristóbal, just east of the Galería.

We expected to be let down after seeing El Morro, but found San Cristóbal equally impressive. No ramp or stairway was left unclimbed.

We had lunch at Butterfly People, a charming restaurant. That is where we learned that Flan de Queso was cheesecake.

We returned to the hotel, dancing up the long hill amid scattered raindrops. The receptionist at the Galería ran to meet us, telling me that friends had “faxed you a bottle of wine.”

It seemed a physically improbably feat. However, investigation showed that Muriel and Don Stauffer had sent an order to give me a bottle of wine as a gift. Since the Galería did not serve dinner and since it hardly would be acceptable to arrive at a restaurant with our own bottle of wine under one arm, we decided to have a picnic-a-la-Provence that night. With Tom’s help, I selected the Galería’s house Cabernet Sauvignon, the wine they served at banquets. The receptionist shrugged at my insistence on being sure that it was not more expensive than intended. She laughed as she said, “Not much,” and added that she already had charged the Stauffers the specified amount.

 

We settled on Carli and Tom’s balcony and watched through gaps in the foliage as a squall swept in over the ocean. When the rain stopped, we walked back down the hill and along Fortaleza to a delicatessen Carli had seen earlier. The delightful young man behind the counter apparently never had anyone request meat and cheese sliced to go in any shape but a sandwich. He spoke no English. He was enthusiastically obliging, once Carli convinced him what we wanted. Carli took over most of the subsequent conversation, though Tom and I got in the act with varying degrees of success.

We were disappointed not to find pate available, but happy with the substitute prosciutto. The young man insisted that we try a paper-thin slice. It was delicious. We ordered that and some sliced salami. I suggested the Spanish cheese and asked him to slice it, assuming squares. Before I could stop him, he had cut each square into three long pieces. No matter. When he sliced the long loaf of bread we ordered, his left hand, holding it down on the bread board mashed it into an oval as the right hand sliced. The bread ended up exactly the right shape for our Spanish cheese.

At 7:00 pm, feeling elegant in my flame-colored silk robe. I returned to Carli and Tom’s suite: Seven steps up to the door of my hideaway and seven more down to their landing. We arranged our picnic on their large, square coffee table. Tom poured our wine. We toasted Muriel and Don, with a thank you for their delightful gift. Our picnic was as delicious and as much fun as we expected. We said our farewell to San Juan with a nightcap of Bailey’s.

Saturday, 16 March

I was up so early to complete my packing that I had an hour in my easy chair in front of my great window to bring my journal up to date and to write post cards.

We breakfasted, paid our bills, stowed luggage in the capacious trunk of the Taurus, and drove westward through low green mountains. Then and for the rest of our trip, the lush foliage was set off by tall trees bursting with large scarlet blooms. On the right were occasional distant views of the Atlantic. Peajes (toll roads) were even more frequent than in Spain. Fortunately, Carli had brought a roll of quarters. Equally luckily, I had accumulated nickels and dimes to make up the usual 35-cent tolls.

We reached the karstic country, an area where water has dripped through limestone for eons. “Karst” remains, low bumpy hills rising from an eroded, level limestone floor. The remaining hillocks are strikingly similar in size and shape. The area is studded with caves and, where tops have caved in, with sinkholes. Allegedly, Puerto Rico is one of only two places in the world with this particular formation in comparable size. Geologists are said to go wild over it.

We reached Quebradillas and easily found the Parador El Guajataca. It was a lovely, low, modern resort with a Mesón Gastronómico rating. We registered but could not take our rooms until 3:00 pm. A nuisance. Far more aggravating, especially to me, was the mandatory signing of a page-long pledge that, among other forbidden sins, one would not commit the sin to taking food or beverages to one’s room. In half-hearted expiation for the rudeness of the rule, we were given vouchers for free drinks, with or without rum. The only problem was that neither the main bar nor the poolside bar was open.

 

With nothing to do at the Parador, we returned to our still-ladened car and drove to the northwest tip of the island. Well-paved roads wound through pretty, wooded country with fields full of cattle and neat houses glowing with fresh paint, no matter how modest the size of the abode. One after the other, they formed a pastel rainbow.

We drove out the hilly peninsula to the western Atlantic shore, then had a beautiful drive along the coast to Aguadilla. It is resort country, but we went through two long, lovely public parks on the shore, one with a boardwalk and children’s playground. We continued south along the coast, passing one of two places that claims to be the spot where Columbus landed on his second trip. The water was somewhat greener and rougher than the water on the northern coast.

We wound higher and higher into the mountains. Elaborate homes looked past the valley to the ocean on both sides of the ridge. Gradually, we reached the coast of one of the best surfing beaches in the world. The manicured park nearby had a lighthouse and a small museum with relics from a Spanish shipwreck accidentally discovered in recent years by a scuba diver.

We followed the road southward toward Mayagüez, through wooded valleys with glimpses of pastures and plantings. Carli said she noticed fields of half-grown sugar cane. Her mother did not comment that she had assumed they were untidy cornfields. We drove through green tunnels of trees whose upper branches intertwined above the road below.

Tom took a back road on our return to the Parador Guajataca, through gently rolling country of small towns. Carli remarked that houses were painted colors you couldn’t imagine in Palo Alto.

At the Parador, we settled into our rooms, then went to the bar to claim our complimentary drinks. The bowls of popcorn, generously refilled, held us until the dining room opened.

The Parador’s food was as good as its status as a Mesón Gastronómico promised. Carli and I had traditional Puerto Rican Mofongos. They were beautifully-seasoned shrimp in a creole-like sauce with a crust of grated plantain. The Mofongos were served in tall decorated wooden goblets like those used to mash plantain.

Sunday, 17 March

We made a leisurely departure for the Cavernas de Camuy. After we had checked in, an open trolley took us through dense woods, not jungle, to the mouth of the cave. We followed a wide walk, surfaced in an unfamiliar slip-resistant material, past massive stalactites and stalagmites to an enormous cavern.

The cave was lighted discretely and just sufficiently that its spectacular accretions could be enjoyed. I had a pang of disappointment. This was my first cave. From pictures seen all my life, I expected glowing crystalline growths. Instead they were impressive, correct in size and even larger than expected—but mud-colored.

Our guide led us along excellent walkways through three caves. A bridge crossed an underground river. One chamber was open to the sky where the roof had collapsed decades earlier. Across from where we stood, another cave opened black against the far wall. For the first time I learned of, and saw, sheet formations, formed when water seeps through a long crack and crystalizes in a sheet rather than in a more usual icicle-like stalactite.

We emerged from the caverns, climbed the hill back up to our trolley, and were driven through the forest to a large, deep sinkhole. Carli and Tom suggested that I might prefer to wait at the top, but I was the first man down the 205 easy wooden steps that wound into the invisible bottom of the collapsed cave.

At the bottom we found a beautiful half-dome cave decorated with a fringe of sheet formations. The bottom of the sink hole was a verdant basin of trees and bushes.

The 205 steps back up to the road were not nearly as attractive as the same ones had been skipping downward. Eventually, I was forced to stop at one of the large, comfortable landings, gasping for oxygen. Had I realized I was almost at the top, pride would have precluded the pause.

 

From Camuy we drove to the nearby Arecibo Observatory. Visitors are allowed only on the observation platform overlooking the huge sinkhole lined with aluminum mesh reflectors for exploratory radio waves. High above it hangs a massive radio telescope, guyed to three tall concrete posts. A couple of men, probably on routine inspection, could be seen, tiny as ants, climbing from one level of the futuristic-looking “thing” to a lower level.

An excellent commentary in Spanish and English explained the telescope, its purpose, and its achievements in simple terms.

 

We returned to the Guajataca by back roads so we could pass Lago Guajataca, the largest man-made lake in Puerto Rico. We caught only rare glimpses of the lake winding narrow, then wide, among the hills.

We decided that the prohibition against taking drinks to one’s room had dubious application, since there were an ice machine and drinks’ vending machine down the corridor. Tom discretely brought our stock from the car, where we had left it the first night. We sat on Carli and Tom’s ground-level veranda enjoying a refreshing drink as we watched the brilliant Atlantic crest white and crash against the shore.

Suddenly an appealing small dog thrust his head over the edge of our veranda at my feet. Naturally, I petted it. Naturally, the dog immediately jumped up and stood patiently at my elbow begging for more attention. He was a nice little dog of no determinable ancestry. A short star-shaped white collar peaked near the back of his head over a short, soft light brindle coat. He was slightly damp from a recent dash into the ocean. When my fingers stopped caressing his ears, my new companion gently reminded me of my duties with a tentative tongue.

Tom: How long do you think he will stay?

Kate: Until we go inside and leave him.

Tom: What if he stays?

Kate: Then he’ll howl under your window all night and I won’t hear him.

Tom: That’s exactly what I’m afraid of.

The dog finally lay down near me. We all gasped in dismay as we saw that his exposed haunch was bare and pink with mange. My children eyed me with something less than deep affection.

My dubious pet deserted us, to our relief, when another dog appeared on the lawn.

I kept my petting hand isolated until I could go inside and wash. After two good latherings with regular soap, I remembered that I traveled with surgical scrub. My final wash in it did not last fifteen minutes, but was sufficient to guard against my acquiring the mange, I was sure.

We had another delicious dinner in the Parador’s dining room, then convened on Carli and Tom’s veranda for a final Bailey’s.

Monday, 18 March

We took the main highway to Mayagüez, having already done our sightseeing in the area. We continued to find amusing incongruities. The sign on the side of a building said “Asociación de Leche”—with the silhouette of a horse.

Tom turned off the “dual carriageway” at a stop light.

Tom: I guess we can turn right on red.

Carli: In San Jun, they turned left or went straight ahead on red, so I think you are legal.

As we approached Mayagüez, Carli, who had read all the Puerto Rico guide books several times, exclaimed in happy recognition, “Smell that! It’s tuna. See, there’s Starkist.” We decided that the smell from processing is not as pleasant as the scent of tuna-out-of-the-tin.

We paused at a turn-out for a photo-op view of the Mayagüez coast.

Tom: Look at the little area of rain over the city from that one little cloud.

Carli: That’s smoke. Take off your dark glasses so you can tell the difference.

Kate: Note that it goes up instead of down.

The Mayagüez bay was gently rippled, murky water with a band of beautiful blue far out, underlining the horizon. Tom explained that the bay had the effluent from three rivers opening into it.

The Mona Passage off the western coast of Puerto Rico is noted for its dangerous currents and even more dangerous sharks. They do not deter the pitiful craft of Dominicans and Haitians from trying to reach Puerto Rico’s U.S. haven.

 

Tom remarked that we ought to stop in Mayagüez at the Tourist Office for information. I just had noticed in one of the guide books that Mayagüez did not have one. Several miles south of the city, Tom suddenly turned off the highway onto a side road and coasted to a stop alongside a handsome building on a small hill. He and Carli had noticed the sign indicating a tourist information center. It was the wisest detour of a trip full of them.

The enthusiastic woman in charge gave Carli and Tom all sorts of instructions and advice. Her most valuable contribution was to urge us to find a guide known as “Charlie-the-Frenchman” to take us to Phosphorescent Bay. The center had a large display of fascinating and humorous sculptures by Charlie, done with nuts and bolts and pieces of metal.

As we reached the southwestern edge of Puerto Rico, the vegetation became noticeably dryer. Colors were gray-green and tarnished-gold instead of the rich, deep greens of the rainier north. Gentle, rolling hills were often denuded of trees or had only a narrow rooster’s crest of green above the topmost ridge. The roads were narrow and sometimes patched, but always passable. By the southwest end of the island, the large layovers on each side of the road were surprisingly reddish in color. We understood its name: El Faro de Cabo Rojo.

 

As we drove southward, the coast was lined with inexpensive resorts, simple restaurants, and homes. Gradually the water became blue and clear again. The farther south we went, the more impressive became the homes and resorts.

We passed a country cemetery. Tom noted that every grave had vases with bouquets of artificial flowers. He drove in. We saw that the vases were cast into the concrete slabs covering graves. Most of the flowers in them looked unweathered. No grave was undecorated.

The pavement ended. We continued toward the southwestern point on a packed sand road. We passed the evaporation tanks and granular piles of a salt industry. We entered a mangrove forest. We had a slight problem of which path to follow. A car slowly easing its way over the uneven road ahead of us turned off. We continued straight to a dead end, turned around, and took the Y fork taken by the other car. We found the car parked at a gorgeous overlook of ocean with mountains on the far side of a bay. As I remarked that perhaps the two occupants of the other car were seeking privacy, the driver started his engine and retreated. We passed the car later parked in a shady, hidden spot on the other side of the peninsula.

We were in a national reserve. Unfortunately, the lighthouse and adjacent center for scientific study were off limits. The only available road took us around the base of their hill to a picturesque little rock-studded beach near the mouth of the bay. The water was Carli-blue.

After finding our way out, we drove to a little compound Carli had spotted earlier. A sign on the fence advertised refrescos (soft drinks). We drove in and parked in solitude and safety. Large up-ended reels formed tables. We sat around one in the welcome shade of a palapa.

A friendly woman greeted us in Spanish from a serving window in the small adjacent building. Of the soft drinks she offered, we all selected “Coco India,” produced by the company that brews the worst beer in the world. Their lightly-carbonated coconut drink was far more acceptable. Tom handed the patronne $2.00 for our $1.50 order. Instead of change, she presented him with three purple lollipops. It was only later in the car that we found, to our mutual horror, that their centers were bubble gum.

The woman offered us one of her “Tostones Grandes” and we agreed enthusiastically. Tostones are slices of green plantain pounded flat and quickly sautéed. They accompanied many of our Puerto Rican dinners. The Tostón Grande was an immense oval of diagonally-sliced plantain that we divided among ourselves delightedly. We sat in the shade of the thatch enjoying a brisk breeze off the water a few feet away.

 

We continued along the south coast to Parguera and our new Parador. It was wooden colonial style, the walk to our rooms lined with giant hanging baskets of luxuriant bougainvillea. This time our balconies overlooked a quiet Caribbean harbor. Small boats were moored along a pristine white pier.

Following instructions from the receptionist, we walked past the next resort to where a houseboat was moored. Charlie-the-Frenchman was not at home. We were considering leaving when he appeared in his outboard. Tom arranged for him to take us to Phosphorescent Bay that night. Charlie counter-suggested leaving early so we could have a tour of the mangrove islands, see the sunset over the bay, and visit the island where the frigate birds roost. We accepted delightedly and arranged for Charlie to pick us up at the Parador Parguera’s pier.

We walked back toward the shops, browsed, then bought ice cream to hold us until a late dinner after our sea trip.

 

Minutes before 5:00 pm we were seated at the end of the pier. Exactly on the hour, Charlie’s boat eased up in front of us. Carli and I were seated amidships on stiff life preservers. It was not easy to arrange a comfortable position, considering the neck opening and front slit of the unyielding garments. As we crossed an open bay, a man in a small boat hailed Charlie. His engine had conked out. Charlie promised to send help.

The cruise through the mangrove was a homecoming for Carli and me. Still, Charlie showed and told us things we never had known about the useful seaside shrubbery. His own interest in, and enthusiasm for, every facet of marine life was a delight to us all. Charlie paused to show us sponges clinging to mangrove roots, along with moss, oysters, anemones. He said that the latter were being tested for an AIDS cure. He showed us mangrove seeds and described their floating, often for very long times, before taking root. Charlie picked a mangrove flower and passed it around so we could enjoy the lovely, light scent. He pointed out huge nests of termites and described their symbiotic relationship with the mangrove. The termites, Charlie explained, clean up dead mangrove without damaging the live trees. Some of the passageways among mangrove islands were wide. Some were green tunnels where we all sat hunched over as we eased through.

In an open bay, we passed a fisherman friend of Charlie’s pulling in a catch of fish from an enormous net that still drifted over acres of water. He pulled the net into his boat, untangling the gills of a fish every foot or so. Charlie nimbly jumped into his boat after some unintelligible conversation between the two and returned with three fish his friend had offered him. A few moments later he reached over and took another large fish that he explained was being given to a mutual friend. The fisherman promised to help the incapacitated boat on his way back to town.

Charlie remarked that it was a long day for him. He had been up since 12:30 am, “And when I get home, I’ll have to clean these fish!”

Carli or Tom spotted the pink-and-lavender oval balloon sail of a Portuguese Man-O-War. Charlie instantly turned his boat around to go along side it so Tom could photograph the sea creature. Charlie soon stopped again so Tom could photograph swarms of tiny insects on the water’s surface in a quiet bight.

We continued through the mangrove into a bay where we could see the beam from the lighthouse at Cabo Rojo, which we had passed earlier in the day. From there, we turned back eastward, slapping through the choppy waves. We watched the sun set. Tom missed by a millisecond capturing the evanescent flare of green just as the sun dips below the horizon.

Our next stop in deep twilight was an island where dozens and dozens of frigate birds swirled overhead and alighted in the branches to rest for the night. Charlie explained that this was not where they nested, just where they roosted. We were used to seeing frigate birds in twos or threes. This great soaring mass was thrilling, despite the growing dark.

Within moments, we were in a branch of Phosphorescent Bay, an area noted for its dense population of dinoflagellates. Carli and I had seen phosphorescence. We expected something-a-bit-more-so. Instead when, at Charlie’s command, we dipped our hands into the water, they created a great milky, pale green glow. The bow and stern wakes when Charlie moved the boat threw light so far it was as if he had floodlights inset in the chine. When the boat drifted, we could see large fish dart past, feeding, as pale green amorphous glows far below. Tinier sea creatures dining on the dinoflagellates were minute emerald sparks deep in the darkness of the water.

 

We learned that Charlie had been born in Martinique. His father was from Brittany in France. Charlie worked for USIS as an electrical engineer during the 1950’s. Suddenly he was transferred to Puerto Rico because of his language skills. Just as suddenly, the USIS station was cancelled. Charlie was given $500 and a permanent U.S. visa. He asked what the $500 was for and was told it was to cover his deportation in case he “did something bad.”

We asked how he became an artist. Charlie said that he began painting and studied in a London art school. Back in Puerto Rico, one day he saw some machine parts he had saved in case of future need and, without prior intent, combined them with other parts to make his first small statue.

For no particular reason, he constructed a 13-foot-tall skeleton and hung it from a tree near his houseboat. One day an American woman came by and insisted on buying it. He did not know what to charge her. After discussions over lunch, it was decided that Charlie would pack and send the sculpture to her, she would have it appraised, and would send him a check. The would-be purchaser represented the Philadelphia Museum of Modern Art.

Charlie made what he referred to a sarcophagus for the skeleton and inscribed the top, “Rust In Peace.” After some time, he received a large envelope with two smaller envelopes inside. One had a check for $6,000, the appraised value of his sculpture. His friend had written that if he was not satisfied with the amount, he should let her know. Charlie said he couldn’t get it in the bank fast enough. The second envelope contained $200 with a note saying that it was in recognition of his sense of humor.

 

Charlie asked if we would like to return to his dock so he could show us his latest statues. We agreed with alacrity. We clambered out of the boat, stiff from the ride, and balanced our way from his dock across a plank to shore. Charlie opened the trunk of his car and lovingly lifted the strange creations to a lighted platform. One was a wonderfully large and ferocious Chupacabra (literally, “goat sucker”), a representation of a possibly mythical creature alleged to be preying on Puerto Rican livestock. Charlie had given the poor goat in his statue a suitably terrified eye, using only machine pieces.

Charlie gallantly took me by the arm to lead me across his open parking lot to assure that I bypassed the shallow pools and streams left by recent rains. I jumped lightly across the major barrier, silently pleased that I did not fall on my face and even displayed a small degree of grace.

Charlie exclaimed with delight, “She leaped like a rabbit!”

Tuesday, 19 March

We set out to explore the area. Our first destination was the lovely little town of San Germán, north of Parguera. We drove all the way through it before we knew we had made a slight navigating error. We wound back and parked nose-down on a steep hill not far from the Cathedral.

Carli described San Germán as a town in the process of change. The beautiful old buildings we wanted to see were closed for reconstruction. We wandered up and down the streets, enjoying elaborate large old Victorian-style houses. Many were freshly painted to set off their elegant plaster friezes. Carli explained that in a Spanish country the era was referred to as “de Isabel,” referring to the Spanish queen, rather than the English one.

From San Germán we drove along to Guánica on the coast. We saw far more flowering shrubs, bougainvillea, ixora, hibiscus, etc., in the south than we had in the north. The Bay of Guánica was edged by high hills. The Caribbean coast was rocky, alternating with sandy stretches of beach.

Returning toward Parguera, we passed through dry tropical forest with cactus, tall palms, and an overgrowth of vines. We continued through an arid valley paralleling the sea.

Kate (after referring to her map): I think that’s the Bahia-Something-Beginning-With-An-M.

Carli: Hah. And you thought the other day that you could see better than I do without my glasses.

 

Back at Parguera we strolled down to get an ice cream then went back to sit on Carli and Tom’s balcony.

Tom (to Kate): Please let me move your chair so I can close the door. We have the air conditioner on.

Kate: Throw the bolt open first to keep the door from locking accidentally.

Tom: No, I have set the lock so that it won’t lock.

Kate: I tried that with my door and it didn’t stay. I suggest you leave the bolt out for safety.

Tom: (closing door) Not necessary…oh, oh, it’s locked!

Conscious of my status as mother-in-law, I diligently refrained from comment.

Tom shrugged and nonchalantly pulled his Swiss Army knife from his pocket. He extracted the pick, inserted it into the tiny hole in the doorknob and tried futilely to disengage the lock. Carli offered him a slightly longer large safety pin. He tried using that with equal lack of success.

Carli: That’s all right. We can climb over to your balcony and go through that way.

Kate: No you can’t. My balcony door is bolted…(pondering)…but my louvers are open. Maybe you can reach through and open the door.

Carli: No, there are screens.

Kate: Then we’d better call for help.

Just then, the housekeeper appeared on the walkway below at the corner of the building. Carli called down to her, explaining the status in flawless Spanish. The housekeeper laughed happily and promised to help. A few moments later three smiling faces peered at us over the railing of my balcony next door.

Tom (to the housekeeper): You can come in through our door.

Kate (unhappily remembering): No they can’t. I bolted your door when I came in.

Tom: You bolted it!

Kate nods embarrassedly.

Housekeeper: That’s all right. We’ll get help.

The three of us waited, chortling at our contretemps. The maids clucked with concern and assured us that this never had happened before. I had assumed it was a regular occurrence.

The housekeeper returned with a hefty young woman from the front desk. She Was Not Amused. Without pause, the receptionist threw a leg over my balcony railing and eased herself across my railing, over Carli and Tom’s railing a few inches away, and down onto Carli and Tom’s balcony as if she had done it repeatedly. She thrust a long pick into the hole in the center of the door knob, turned the knob, and opened the door. Tom escorted the still unsmiling young woman through their room. He unbolted the door I so inconveniently had secured and let her out onto our private stairway. She was joined by a flurry of maids retreating from my room after final giggles of sympathy and relief across the railings for Carli and me.

Tom returned with refreshments. We settled securely on the balcony, bolt extending on the door to prevent another accidental closing. A gentle wind rattled palm trees as light dimmed across the quiet harbor.

Wednesday, 20 March

We left Parguera. As the road stretched straight on the low coastal plain, I silently hoped that at least part of our drive to our next parador at Jayuya would take us into the mountains. That was before I found that the drive designed by our indefatigable driver would take us miles inland from the coast winding through steep, forested mountains for the next five hours.

We joined the Ruta Panorámica, passing one tiny country village after another, some neat, some shabby. The government wisely had resisted posting “S-Curve” signs. The road consisted of nothing else.

Steep hillsides, so straight up and down that they appeared impossible to climb, were planted with coffee shaded by taller banana trees.

Tom: (musing) I wonder how they harvest the coffee?

Carli: That’s easy—they call Juan Valdez and his donkey.

Carli remarked that, considering the abundance of plantain in Puerto Rican cuisine, the trees we identified as banana easily might be their hardier cousin. Tall stands of feathery bamboo reminded Carli and Tom of their former graceful growing screen across the back of their yard. They destroyed it reluctantly under threat of suit by the neighbor whose adjacent yard was beset by the unwanted invasion of one sprouting clump of bamboo after another.

We entered one of the many national forests. Rock outcroppings, rare in Puerto Rico’s heavily wooded mountains, gave contrast to the rich greens. A bright yellow fire hydrant appeared improbably at the side of the road in the middle of the forest.

We stopped at an isolated stone observation tower, the morning’s obligatory climb. One side presented a vista of ridge after mountain ridge disappearing into the far mist, while the other side showed an extensive valley stretching to the Caribbean sea.

We reached a blockade and turned onto the almost impassable detour. Tom inched along as the rutted road narrowed and almost disappeared.

Tom: This is getting more scenic every mile.

Fortunately, the diversion was short. We rejoined the Ruta Panorámica.

Most of the drive was in deep shadow. Mountains were steep and sudden, separated by deep-V valleys. Frequent tall trees with large scarlet blooms were welcome spots of color against the varied greens. Blooming mango trees looked like rust stains in the distance. Tiny white flowers blossomed on coffee bushes.

An unfamiliar tree aflame with orange flowers stood in occasional isolation against a hill. Impatiens in rich shades of pink grew in profusion along roadsides and climbed up steep verges to disappear among the rocks and trees.

On the map, the line of the Ruta Panorámica so far was a narrow snake with easy curves. It became, instead, a squiggle. After the twisted road we had followed, we could not believe the map was telling the truth.

It was. The car was into a new curve before our innards could recenter themselves from the last one. Even the infrequent open stretches that should have been straight had two or three curves in quick succession. We reached the end of the squiggly line on the map. Tom asked Carli what we could expect ahead. Just as she finished replying that it looked straight on the map, we turned onto a new section of the Ruta with its own series of sharp curves.

 

Outside Jayuya we took the wrong fork in the road. A normal part of travel. Tom reversed and turned into the entrance of the Parador Hacienda Gripiñas, before 5:00 o’clock, as Carli had predicted.

The parador was near the top of a mountain, surrounded by tall trees. It was a pleasant old hacienda on a former coffee finca (plantation), wooden, Colonial style, surrounded by beautiful informal gardens. Bentwood rockers invited guests to linger in the lounge while newer wooden rockers formed seating areas on the long, wide veranda.

The first sound we heard was the clear “co-QUI” of the famous Puerto Rican frogs. We later learned the truth of their reputation for making an almost-deafening chorus at night in the mountains.

We were led down wide stone steps, through a patio with a planter whose properly-named enormous Monstera climbed through a hole in the ceiling to leaf luxuriantly in a side area of the dining room above.

Doors in our bedrooms opened onto what eventually will be a veranda with gardens beyond them. My room had the most space because of a double, instead of queen-size, bed so we gathered there for Happy Hour. Again the parador was a Mesón Gastronómico. Again our dinner was superb.

Thursday, 21 March

We were off early on twisting mountain roads through a peopled area of pastel houses to the Taino ceremonial center. Taino Indians were an Arawak people who inhabited the area about 1,000 years ago.

Traffic was rapid, despite the curving roads. We drove with a sense that danger lay dead ahead. Cars and vans pushed to get advantage, though large trucks honked politely in warning on curves. Carli remarked, “Now I see the advantage of having a crucifix or religious statue hanging from the rear view mirror.”

Like all the parks in Puerto Rico, this one was spacious, handsomely planted, manicured, with attractive, clean public buildings. We followed a neat walkway to a large grassy park set with widely spaced enormous trees. The Taino ball courts, of which there were several of varying size, were large sandy rectangles outlined with rocks—some low, some upright slabs with faint traces of Taino drawings that had withstood centuries of weather.

We wandered from ball court to ball court, enjoying the pleasant surroundings. On the ground beneath an unfamiliar tree Carli found a strange seed pod, split open to show a line of discs inside like a roll of Life Savers.

We left the Taino Center and continued our explorations of the area. Midday we pulled off the road at a little repair shop/car wash/bar for a Coco Rico. The genial owner insisted that we sit at his domino table under an awning. The man who was there hoping for players to join him cheerfully moved to the bar while we enjoyed our drinks. Our simple hill-top retreat refreshed us with a brisk breeze and view across a valley to the mountains beyond.

 

We returned to Jayuya by a route along a lake. The wide, easy highway was a welcome antidote to the sharply twisting road we had ventured out on, uncomfortably soon after our large breakfasts.

Suddenly our lovely road ended, with a view of the other side of the karst country we had driven through a few days earlier. We turned back onto the old road lower in the valley. Three rivers merged at a dam. We followed a line of rivers and lakes. Polite truck drivers pulled over to let us pass on narrow, frustrating roads.

Mountains in Puerto Rico were nearly vertical, sharp angles softened by dense foliage. To me they were almost cozy in contrast to the massive, forbidding mountains of Spain. In places, they resembled the Appalachians.

From a combination of conversation and road signs, I could see the looping route we were taking back to Jayuya. I thought of remarking that the only way we ever could get from Point A to Point B by the most direct route would be to confiscate the highlighter Carli used so happily each evening to trace the day’s travels. I refrained from comment because I was afraid Carli and Tom would misunderstand and think I was tired of driving. Actually, I gloried in every winding mile through the mountains.

 

Throughout our travels, the homes we passed were an unending pleasure because of the immense variety in their decoration. Homes in the interior tended to be less eclectically painted than those near the coast.

The basic Puerto Rican house was low and boxy with a flat roof and an open-walled or railed veranda across the front. Most were painted a basic white, off-white, or cream. Fascia boards around the roof, often the inner wall of the veranda, and almost always trim on the veranda were a contrasting color. There was imaginative variety in the application of trim color. Most of the homes were charming combinations; some were questionable choices, but amusing; some were unbelievable.

The most popular and attractive combinations were cream with tile red, soft pumpkin, or tangerine trim.

Almost as frequent were homes of pink with blue trim, blue with pink trim, combinations of pink and aqua, pink and green, or pink and purple.

One house had twisted columns on the veranda. A line of pink paint curling up the groove echoed the pink around the roof. It was a delightful candy cane of a home.

Another charming combination was white trimmed with my mother’s 1930’s favorite, “Ashes Of Roses.”

A few white houses were trimmed with a mauve that looked surprisingly suitable under the hot Puerto Rican sun.

Two tones of the same color often—but definitely not always—were handsome, depending on the colors and shades selected.

Some homes were more eccentric: two shades of lavender trimmed with green and peach; diagonal blocks of lime green and purple.

Not far from the turnoff onto the private road up to the Hacienda Gripiñas was a large building with huge squares of alternating pink and lavender, topped by a broad band of tile red.

 

At Happy Hour in my room Tom glanced out the window, stared for a moment, then announced, “There’s a rooster in that tree!”

We all rushed to the open door. Tom was right. High in a clump of bamboo, strutted a black rooster with majestic red comb. It couldn’t happen. He was some twenty feet from the ground. Tom pointed out that the bamboo grew down the side of the hill so that the rooster was not quite that far from adjacent perches. Still, it was a strange sight.

Almost immediately, Carli pointed out a hen on a branch of a tree slightly lower. A second rooster made his careful way out the same branch, to the obvious disapproval of the hen. There was a cacophony of clucking. The top rooster scolded the others for invading his kingdom. The hen told the second rooster, “No,” in shrill detail. And the second rooster defied them both. The foliage fluttered in the great storm of clucking, crowing, and carrying on, verbal and physical.

 

As we left the dining room that night after another excellent dinner, we hear a loud “Co-QUI” from the area of a small grassy patio off the wide covered walkway outside the dining room. Carli moved forward cautiously in a Groucho Marx crouch, trying to locate the frog. As she reached the patio path, the croaking ceased. Carli retreated. The clear call of “coquí” resumed. All three of us tried to pinpoint its location. We decided the little frog was either in one of the planters on the wall alongside the stairway or was near the base of the wall in the grass of the patio.

Two young men, newly-arrived guests, emerged from the dining room. They eyed our activities warily. The croaking stopped as they approached our target area. I explained that we were looking for a frog. This did not appear to reassure them. Carli described the famous Puerto Rican coquí and they joined us with bridled enthusiasm, but broad grins.

A young Puerto Rican appeared and joined our conversation. I asked him what size the coquí was. He measured out something between five- and seven-eighths of an inch and added, discouragingly, that there were some 200 varieties of coquí in the island. The young man said he was supervising installation of fiber-optic telephone lines to a large area, principally to provide areas never served by telephones before or to upgrade service to area businesses.

We finally agreed that our coquí was in one of the planters, left him still unseen, and retired to our bedrooms to listen to the repetitious calls of his friends-and-family as we fell asleep.

Friday, 22 March

We checked out of the Hacienda Gripiñas and made our circuitous, scenic way to the old city of Ponce on the southern coast. This solved one of my problems. I was familiar with Ponce from our shipping schedules. However, I had a difficult time pronouncing the name of the town we just had left: Jayuya. After frustrating early attempts, I learned that if I could manage to get the first vowel right, the rest was easy. In the meantime, what should have been Ha-YOO-ya more often came out as Hoo-YA-you or Hoo-YOO-yoo.

Our drive took us past a steep waterfall with blankets of pink impatiens stretching far up on either side. Only occasionally did we catch glimpses of rock as we drove through the mountains. One such exception was a waterfall where the stream emerged from between two huge rock outcrops to plunge vertically for perhaps fifty feet.

We returned to the Ruta Panorámica and quickly were in another national forest. We followed comfortable curves along a ridge overlooking a broad valley to the Caribbean. Rarely did we see pine trees amid the dense tropical forest. The broad cuts where the road intruded into mountains were stabilized by heavy growths of shrubbery. We had alternating glimpses of the range of the Cordillera, stretching higher and higher into the distance endlessly away and, on the other side, of the sea beyond broad valleys.

Tom remarked that we should tell the government that the tourist bureau does a fantastic job but that they need to produce a decent beer. Our experience was the watery light beer the Galería stocked and the famous “India” on the west coast that we found virtually undrinkable.

Dogs in Puerto Rico tended to be small and nondescript. Roosters, on the other hand, were magnificent and omnipresent. You couldn’t avoid them. We found them strutting in places almost as strange as the trees outside our bedrooms in Jayuya.

 

Ponce is a major seaport with mountains just behind it. We stayed in the downtown Hotel Meliá, just across from the ornate old black-and-red fire station.

I embarrassed Carli. She and I went in to register while Tom circled the block. That done, we went outside to signal him to stop to unload baggage. I saw a parking place close to the hotel door. I planted myself in the middle of it and waved off cars whose drivers had the temerity to attempt to utilize the space. Carli’s face assumed the what-will-that-woman-do-next look that I remembered from her early years. With surprising tact she extracted me from my self-designated task, indicated that the bell man was moving stanchions to open a parking area directly in front of the door, and nodded in satisfaction as Tom slid the car smoothly into position. I gathered the remnants of my dignity around me as a cloak and withdrew, head high, into the hotel.

A sign at the reception desk stated, “For additional information, befriend our desk executives who will enlighten you of our many attractions.”

Carli’s comment: “Mom’s the one to befriend the desk executives.”

 

After settling in, we walked over to the fire station. One of the two gleaming old fire trucks appeared to date from the 1920’s. Paint and brass fittings gleamed. Seats were highly polished wood upholstered with cracked leather. Wooden ladders bracketed on each side of the engine were no longer than my aluminum extension ladder at home. We climbed up to the balcony and visited the neat little museum with its display of fire memorabilia and touching tributes to the men of the service.

By the greatest of good fortune the Feria de Artesanías opened that day in the plaza across from the hotel. The grounds were decorated. Row after row of kiosks displayed handmade jewelry, leather goods, small statues of the Three Wise Men, decorated gourds, Tee shirts with Taino designs, small ceramic ticky-tacky. We spent two hours seeing everything. We paused for a glass of fresh orange juice and shared a large square of coconut candy of minor quality. Carli and I agreed that Belizean cutubrute was far superior. We bought a few little things for gifts, our dismay over the dearth of native crafts in Puerto Rico assuaged.

We walked to a nearby German restaurant recommended by the guide books. Service was slow because each meal was cooked as a special order. It was not our finest dinner of the trip, but the owner’s wife had charm enough to offset our disappointment.

On our way back to the hotel, we stopped at the parking area of the “trolleys” that carried sightseeing passengers up the mountainside behind the city. Drivers were talking together after parking for the night. Tom asked one of the drivers the schedule for the next day. He misunderstood Tom’s question, corralled a second driver, and was ready to take the three of us up to the castle at a time when all we wanted to do was go to bed. We thanked him warmly and returned to The Meliá.

Saturday, 23 March

We had breakfast in the charming rooftop terrace of the Hotel Meliá with a view over all of Ponce.

By 9:00 o’clock, we were the sole passengers in the “trolley” going up past lovely old homes to the great Cross and Castle on the mountain above the city. The appealing vehicles used for the trip are a fleet of buses designed inside and out to resemble turn-of-the-century street cars—red and black-green paint with gold trim, traditional seats of highly polished wooden slats in black iron frames, arched windows with frosted glass designs, and a curving wooden overhead inset with small oblong windows.

We arrived at the cross at 9:30 only to find that it opened to visitors at 10:00 on weekends. We descended the long stairway to the castle below. It, too, still was closed. We wandered up and down its lovely terraces, steps, and gardens. At 10:00, we were allowed into the gift shop. There we were told that the first tour would be at 10:30. We had waited long enough. We climbed the seventy-some steps back up to the cross and took the brief tour up into the cross-arms. Our enthusiastic young guide gave us a brief history of Ponce and of the monument itself as we looked out over the city. As we left, our friendly trolley man drove past the cross to park near the castle. We had lost all interest in visiting the mansion built in the 30’s. We raced down to meet him and returned to town.

 

On our return, we walked to the other side of the plaza to wait under a sign saying “Chu-Chu Tren de Ponce – Parada.” The delightful bright red two-car open train is pulled by what appears to be an old fashioned steam engine. We leaned against El Alcaldía (City Hall), watching the resuming artisans’ fair across the street in the plaza.

Finally the Chu-Chu arrived and we climbed aboard. It was a pleasant 30-minute trip out to the beach. The handsome boardwalk along the harbor was shaded by trees set in planters along its center and lined by identical refreshment stands. We climbed the observation tower (76 steps), but found nothing much else to do. We were relieved when it was time to return to the Chu-Chu.

A detour on the trip home took us to a beautiful public recreation park. We stopped for about fifteen minutes. Cages held peacocks, which were utterly disinterested in demonstrating their feathered glory. A hen and rooster wandered free. A delightful little boy, probably around three years old, ran up to Carli begging her to come see the ducklings in one of the cages.

 

Back in Ponce, we could not resist the magnet’s pull of the now-bustling Feria. Both Tom and I “needed” things we had seen but not bought the day before. Carli led the way to an ice cream stand conveniently close to our hotel. We sat on hard benches and enjoyed the deliciously flavored, inferior-quality frozen sweet.

Tom worried that the way the car was blocked in at the parking lot near the hotel, he would not be able to extract it when we wanted to leave the next morning. The garrulous, but almost unintelligible, attendant reassured him that he had keys and could move any blocking vehicle. He helped Tom extract the red Ford, now dull with dirt rather than gleaming, as it had been at the start of our travels.

We drove to the beautiful modern Museum of Art designed by Edwin Durell Stone. In the entry, double staircases swept in wide curves to the second floor, where a simple railing outlined a broad circular balcony above the entrance hall. Below were a pool and statues.

The museum had fine representations of most of the major schools of art, a few respectable paintings by masters, and a striking selection of works by Puerto Rican and Caribbean artists. We were highly impressed by the design of the building, which eased the flow of traffic from room to room.

We returned to the Meliá to change for dinner, unnecessarily as it turned out. We drove to a recommended fish house a couple of miles outside Ponce. The restaurant was a charmingly informal building, where we sat on a covered veranda with the light waves of the Caribbean sea breaking on the coral just below us. We watched the sunset turn swirls of cirrus bright pink against a still-blue sky. Our dinners were more delicious than we had any reason to expect.

Sunday, 24 March

After leaving the Hotel Meliá, we drove to the Tibes Indian Ceremonial Center by way of an uncharted cul-de-sac in a cluttered little neighborhood. Tom was not happy at the navigational error, but I was charmed at seeing an unexpected part of Ponce.

The Center, on the edge of the city, had an excellent small museum. We began our tour there, studying the three groups of early inhabitants of Puerto Rico. A short film described the accidental discovery of the ruins following a flood some years ago.

A personable young guide led us through beautifully groomed grounds. He described the various trees and their medicinal uses. We inspected a reconstruction of a Taino village, the circular houses made of elephant grass with peaked thatched roofs. The oldest of the Taino ball courts was edged by rocks that had been carbon-dated as 1,400 years old.

The Ceremonial court was almost square, rather than rectangular like the ball courts (120′ x 130′). It was outlined by large rocks, three deep and about six wide at the top. Larger rocks formed seats for chiefs. Our guide told us that, during the area-wide celebration of discovery of The New World (Columbus Day in the U.S.), Puerto Rico invited Indian chiefs from all over North, South, and Central America to meet to discuss matters of common interest and, perhaps, to form an organization that could make the voice of Indians heard in international affairs.

 

In view of the time and our desire to reach The Galería by mid-afternoon, we took the main highway back to San Juan. The most picturesque place we could find for a refresco was a Burger King. I never had been in one of these chain fast-food establishments.

Carli gave our order, but I paid for it. Having seen no human communication among employees subsequently, I quietly asked Carli if anyone knew what we had ordered. Carli and Tom pointed out that the cashier’s machine, which I took for an ordinary cash register, was a computer with a key for each item on the menu. The order was displayed on a nearby monitor. I felt like Rip Van Winkle.

We indulged ourselves with milk shakes. Carli seemed quite happy with hers. I found mine icy instead of smooth and rich as I remembered milk shakes’ being in the distant past when I last had one.

Entertainment was provided by employees’ quickly decorating the table next to us for a birthday party. They installed a great, two-tier cake inscribed in orange frosting “Feliz Cumpleaños, Roberto.” We never saw Roberto or his little friends but enjoyed the increasingly elaborate preparations for his party.

About half-way back to San Juan, we turned off the highway to make a small loop, our last brief fling on the Ruta Panorámica. We twisted up into the mountains, looked hundreds of feet down into narrow valleys, and again appreciated the dense vegetation broken by spots of color on either side.

Near the end of our loop, we found ourselves immobilized in the traffic of a Feria at a town so small it was not even shown on the map. It was virtually impassable. With incredible patience, calm, and skill Tom threaded the car among the mass of vehicles and made his escape.

 

Back in Old San Juan, we parked at The Galería. Chista greeted us like old friends. In line with its casual manner, the new electric machine to impress credit cards did not work. We were told we could worry about checking in next morning when we checked out.

I was booked back into my original room, Secret B. Carli and Tom’s balcony suite was occupied, so they were put in the Caracol Suite, which they had expected to be in on their first stay.

We were led down a hall, up a flight of tiled stairs, around a corner, up a flight of wooden stairs with dark, turned, wooden balustrade, and into a small room. There an iron spiral stairway, the longest and tightest spiral I ever had seen, led to a pleasantly decorated entry on the floor above.

I hate spiral stairways. Fortunately, my abundant fear of them results in such careful placement of feet and tight grip of railings that I negotiate them in utter safety.

Chista opened the door to Carli and Tom’s suite. We went up an unexpected step on the threshold and were in a small room occupied by an immense bed with a large low table placed at its foot. The bedroom opened on a charming living room. Glass doors along one side led to a small dry pool with stone wall behind it. On the other side of the living room, a wide doorway gave access to a covered rooftop terrace with patio furniture and, beyond it, an open deck with lounge chairs.

Carli immediately walked out alongside a half-height wall and surprised the neighbors from the next room as they were sunbathing. She retreated apologetically.

Chista suddenly suggested that, if we liked, I could have the third room opening off the entry at the same price as Secret B. I hesitated momentarily, thinking of the spiral staircase and of the charm of my first room. However, the pleasure and convenience of being across the entry from Carli and Tom outweighed other considerations—assuming I could avoid taking a header down the chute walking from my room to theirs.

Moving luggage from the car to our aerie was a major project. Tom absolutely forbad me to carry even one of the lightest pieces.

Tom: We’ve had a good trip so far and we’re not taking a chance of spoiling it now.

I heard a particular note in his voice I never had heard before, so ceased my protests abruptly.

How Tom manhandled our heavy luggage up the narrow spiral stairs, I’ll never know, but bag after bag, he managed.

We did a minimum of settling, then gathered on their open terrace for a last-chance photo session.

 

We had planned to drive into Condado to a highly recommended restaurant. However, Chista suggested a restaurant in Old San Juan that seemed to fit our desire for someplace special for the last night of our trip.

We changed and walked down the hill with much laughter about forcing me to climb the endless hill back to The Galería one last time.

La Marisol was perfect. The restaurant opened onto a small court off Cristo Street. The Maître d’ seemed surprised to see us arrive 15 minutes before our reservation and suggested that we wait at one of the wrought-iron tables outside with an aperitif.

After a short time he returned to say, “Please follow me,” as he deftly picked up our drinks and led us into the restaurant. We were attended by more polished waiters for that one meal than we had seen on the entire trip. (Literary license)

The restaurant was modest in size, traditional/elegant in style. Food was delicious and elegantly presented. Two waiters stood by to lift the silver domes of our entrées at the same moment, displaying as if to a roll of drums, Tom’s halibut, Carli’s rack-of-lamb, and my venison.

Desserts were hard to choose. Everything sounded luscious. Tom had chewy brownie-like cake with ice cream. Carli selected almond cheese cake. I could not resist crème brûlée. Carli’s and my plates were decorated with swirls of custard and raspberry sauce, berries, and fruit.

We struggled back up the hill to The Galería and up all the steps, straight and curving, to our bedrooms. We said goodnight in the pretty little entry and retired to our own chambers.

Monday, 25 March

I was up early for my private cup of coffee and final packing. By the time Carli and Tom knocked on my door, they already had taken some of their luggage down to the car. Both were smiling broadly. As soon as we reached privacy on the floor below, Tom insisted on Carli’s confessing all.

When Carli returned to their floor after taking a bag down to the car, she opened the door and, to her surprise, found herself in a dark room. A woman’s voice called out sleepily, “Who’s there?”

Carli had intruded on our neighbors again. She apologized quickly as she made an embarrassed withdrawal.

After that, it was a final breakfast in our favorite patio and a short drive to the airport. Goodbyes were fervent but quick as I left to check in and Carli and Tom drove off to turn in our trusty red Taurus.